The Killer, killed
by atreides213
Summary: I literally did this in about an hour, so tell me if it sucks :) A short story about an unnamed aspiring young author and Jeff the Killer.


I don't really believe in ghosts. Or goblins, monsters under the bed, things that watch you while you sleep. I really don't. At least, intellectually. On an intellectual level, everybody over the age of ten knows that monsters don't exist, that there's no ghost up in the creepy mansion on the hill. But darkness changes you. In the dark, intellectual thought, logic and reason…they're all thrown out the window, replaced by raw fear, fear of the unknown, the unseen. In the dark, where anything could be ten inches away from you and you'd never know it, your mind wanders to the improbable and the impossible, and the monsters become all too real. For me, at least. You see, one night, six months ago, a real monster came for me.

I was sitting at my computer, typing out a story I was working on. I knew it wouldn't matter, though. Ideas for me were like flashes of lightning. One moment of creative brilliance, followed by the void of writer's block. Some stories I held onto for sentimental reasons. The adventures of Vin, the misfit troll, and the exploits of John Ranger, rogue FBI agent, are examples of this. Probably my two worst works, but what the hell? They were my first. Others got tossed before they even made it past the first paragraph. There are too many of those to count.

In any case, I leaned back, rubbing my eyes in exhaustion, and slammed my laptop shut. The only light on in the room was the fixture on the wall above my bed, which created a tiny island of visibility in my large, dark bedroom. I stayed up for a while more, reading a book or two, going to the bathroom once. Call me paranoid, but whenever I went anywhere in the house at night, I carried what I jokingly called my 'bopping stick'. It was half a walking stick, the other half being lost somewhere at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I had brought it down too hard on a rock on that one trip, splitting it. On the side of the half I still had, you could see the words 'Grand Canyon' burnt into the wood. But I digress.

Finally, at around one in the morning, I flicked the light off and closed my eyes, falling into a light sleep. I didn't dream. I usually don't when I'm really tired. I think that's why I woke up. Something, some whisper in the air, some kind of creak or moan where there should be none. My eyes snapped open and I sat bolt upright in bed. I looked around. Nothing. My door was still shut, my curtains still pulled closed, billowing softly in a whispery breeze. I glanced at the clock. 2:34. Barely an hour of sleep. I had to stop being so paranoid...It hit me then. My curtains were billowing in a soft breeze.

I had closed my window before I went to bed.

I told myself I was just imagining things. That there was no way someone could open that creaky, rusty window without my hearing it. Still, I forced myself to look back towards it, and there he stood. Eyes wide and crazed, ringed in black. Lips pulled back in a perpetual smile, further widened with large slashes cut into his pale cheeks. The figure held up a knife. "Shhhh," he whispered, almost soothingly. "Go…to…sleep." A strangled cry escaped my throat before the…thing…leapt at me. I fell back onto the bed and rolled to the side. I was lucky, and his first stab punctured the mattress where I'd been mere seconds ago. But I knew that luck couldn't last.

I looked up fearfully into the eyes of my attacker. He was giggling a bit now, a hysterical tickle in the back of his throat, slowly escalating as he prepared to stab again. Fear almost paralyzing me, I reached out blindly for something to defend myself with, and my hand closed around my old, crappy, half broken Grand Canyon walking stick. His knife went down again, taking me in the stomach. I gasped in pain, and my arm reflexively shot up, still gripping the hardened hickory cane. It hit the side of his head with a sickening crack, and he fell to the floor. Barely aware of what I was doing, I followed him, straddling his chest as I swung the stick again and again. Blood began flying with each blow. And still the bastard laughed. He wouldn't stop. I had to make him stop!

Breathing hard in fear and anger, I looked back into his eyes. What right did this son of a bitch have to try and kill me? 'Go to sleep,' he said. Like it was just taking a nap and not the end of my being, all I ever was or would be. Like it was a fucking joke. In a rage, I lifted the stick again and drove the splintered broken end into his left eye. The laughing only became louder, sounding more like screams, but he was still….LAUGHING! I stabbed his right eyes. I brought it down on his nose. I swung and beat and hit until his face was a bloody, pulpy mess. My dad rushed in somewhere near the end and pulled me off of him. I was rushed to the emergency room, treated for my injury. In a few weeks, I was back to normal life.

My parents hired a psychologist to help me 'get over my ordeal'. But I knew they were worried I was mentally ill. I hadn't been a violent kid, hell, I'm still not, but something about that fucking bastard son of a bitch what right did he have to….sorry. Something about that guy just made me…so angry. God knew how many victims he had taken before me. But I knew one thing. I hadn't escaped. I hadn't beaten him. I was his final victim. I'll always have the scars he left me, both physically and mentally.

His laugh, though, that was something else. I tried to copy it once. It sounded pretty good. I've been smiling more lately, as well. Such a pretty smile, I've got. Shame I can't smile forever. Though…maybe I can. Why not? That bastard did it, why can't I? Then I can look at my pretty smile forever. Well, that's all for now. See you later, maybe. Just go to sleep.


End file.
